A Maia Scorned
by crackinthecup
Summary: "The proud, reckless line of Fëanor—ended, shredded to a piece of meat to droop from a spear, a macabre banner of war." The final confrontation between Celebrimbor and Annatar. Silverfisting. Depictions of torture and rape, though nothing graphic. More warnings inside. One-shot.


**Warnings: **torture and rape, though nothing graphic; breath-play (erotic asphyxiation).

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

"How dare you!" Celebrimbor spat, and something he could not name wrenched at his heart. He made to surge upward and seize Annatar by the throat, but the two Orcs looming like dark towers on either side of him crushed his upper arms in an iron grip, and he was left flailing between them to no avail.

Annatar tipped his head to the side—a fluid, entirely animal gesture—and his soft laughter fell on the air like frost. "My, Tyelpë," he crooned, and the words dripped like honey from his lips, "I did not know you had it in you." He drew closer, fingers unfurling, and—

"Don't touch me!" Celebrimbor snarled as Annatar's palm cupped his cheek, but though violently he jerked his head, there was nowhere for him to go. The circlet of gold hugging Annatar's finger in unholy marriage flamed against his flesh; the Maia's body seemed to burn, waves of heat rolling outward until Celebrimbor felt the faintness of a swoon descend upon him.

Annatar's eyes narrowed at the rejection, the gold in them waxing cold even as he dipped his head as though to kiss Celebrimbor. Slick sickness churned in the Noldo's stomach at the thought, at the mocking caress of Annatar's breath and the hateful softness of his palm as it cradled his cheek; and through it all the ring corroded his skin.

"Do not presume to command me," Annatar said quietly, and his voice was steel. A moment flitted past during which neither of them spoke, and the sounds of distant battle filtered through the static air of the tent. Danger looped round Annatar like a fine necklace, and with every breath its puissance hissed as hot metal under water—he must have been blind indeed to not notice its glare.

Suddenly Annatar stepped away, and an insidious shiver tripped down Celebrimbor's spine at the rush of cool air against his torso. Outlined in muted radiance by the failing light creeping through the flap of the tent, Annatar stood clad in a black tunic and matching breeches, and though his armor lay huddled in a corner and war was momentarily forgotten, the fabric clung to his body with the stickiness of gore. Celebrimbor wondered how many he had slain.

"Release him."

The guards shoved him forward and with the brutish sadism crammed into the push he stumbled, toppling to the floor. The ground shook querulously beneath him with the wrath of war, and he felt more than heard the heavy tread of the Orcs as Annatar gestured their dismissal.

He sprawled on the ground still though they were at last alone. The very blood in his veins boiled with the ignominy of the Maia's betrayal, shame and fury smashing together in his chest and spilling crimson into his cheeks. And shrieking from the depths of the torrent yet another emotion burst like a Valkyrie onto a battlefield, but viciously he muzzled it, vehemently he batted it aside. Annatar meant nothing to him.

A curtain of gold fluttered before his eyes for a moment, and then fingers were hooking round his arm, hauling him to his feet. Nausea twisted in his gut at such a sudden movement, and he swayed where he stood. But then Annatar was stalking toward him with the glitter of malice in his eyes, and he flinched even before the slap was dealt.

Shock thudded through him, and it was speared by the sharp pain in his cheek, where the ring had cloven a bloody groove. He staggered backward a couple of paces, and even as his hand came up to probe at the injury, he felt the wall against his back and knew he was hemmed in.

"Where are they, Tyelpë?" Annatar growled, and how could he have ever found that countenance fair? For through its pallor it blazed with a cold light, and it was the light of cruelty.

The clamor of defiance was loudest among all other emotions then, and proudly he held his head aloft. The grandson of Fëanor would not be so easily cowed. "I do not know."

Flesh scraping flesh, and the back of his head slammed into the wall, blackness cutting through his vision. "Liar," Annatar hissed, and his fingers were at his throat, jammed into his windpipe. Celebrimbor spluttered with the lack of breath, hands scrabbling uselessly at Annatar's forearm, and weakly he denied the ache gaping within him.

(_Air rattling in his lungs, his chest burning, his mind empty—so familiar was the sensation that sickness crashed into him once more. Annatar's hands curling round his throat—but the brush of skin against skin was almost loving; the many rings adorning his fingers cool against heated flesh—a delicious cacophony that somehow only set ecstasy squirming in his belly; his cock slipping in and out of him in such a languid rhythm as Annatar molded his torso to his back and they rocked together against the sheets. And then the shivering violence of pleasure and that silver voice rough with passion at his ear and the words that now felt like ripping open a wound._)

"I will ask you again, Tyelpë," Annatar intoned, and ice cracked through that voice even through the hurricane in his ears, "where are the rings?"

"I don't know," Celebrimbor croaked out. He felt consciousness shake and slip, and he almost welcomed the blackness crawling over his senses; but then agony was screeching through his muffled world, sharp and vivid, and he was gasping for breath on the floor. Pain pulsed in his left side with all the gruesome gusto of life, and even the slide of his tunic over the bruised flesh as he rolled onto his back made a whimper bleed from his throat.

And then Annatar pounced. He sprang onto Celebrimbor and pinned his wrists to the floor. His hips ground into Celebrimbor's own, caging him in, and the brutality of the movement sent his hair tumbling round them like a shimmering net. Time congealed as the Noldo stared wide-eyed into that fair face made grotesque with hatred, and feeble were his struggles beneath that unyielding body.

Annatar's face was mere inches from his own, his breath fast and ragged amid the unwavering glow of his eyes. "Listen to me, Elfling, and listen well. I made you into what you are today, and I can take it all away. Your kingdom, your family, your life. Now tell me, Tyelpë," but abruptly the ice in his voice thawed, and a seductive purr fanned against his cheek instead, "where are the rings?"

Even as Annatar had bidden, Celebrimbor had listened, and at the poisonous words his heritage, spurred on by the sting of indignity, squalled within him, and the white-hot pride of the house of Fëanor burst into bright flame.

"You did not make me into anything, _Sauron_," Celebrimbor blustered with a savage curl of the lip, and for a moment Annatar saw the grandfather in the incandescent black eyes of the Noldorin prince. "Take away what you will, but you will have neither the rings nor me. I welcome death"—and madness hooted its laughter in his eyes—"I am not your slave."

Annatar's fingers tightened spasmodically round the Noldo's wrists, and the scowl on his face was as thunder before a storm. "We will see about that, _dearest_," he ground out through clenched teeth, and something dark leered in his glance.

He made Celebrimbor scream that night. He sliced curlicues into his flesh—filigree vermilion rills, and then, when the Noldo bit back his sobs, careless gashes with rucked edges—until the flaps of skin gaped like bloodless lips. He kicked his legs apart and made him beg, and when Annatar's hands fisted clumps of rich dark hair, when his thrusts were eased by blood and sweat, he might even have meant it.

He pawed at Celebrimbor's jaw and tore it open so viciously that the bone whined. He hacked at his tongue, and the Noldo howled and howled and would not stop; Celebrimbor curled in on himself then and tears sluiced the blood from his chin and unconsciousness would have finally claimed him were it not for the kicks that shattered his ribs, that left bruises patterning his flesh like obscene kisses—anything, _anything_, to not glimpse those eyes flashing like gold ore spun to distraction, those sloping cheekbones smeared with blood sprayed from his broken mouth, that wild hair studded with droplets of gore glistening like perverted rubies. And all for Celebrimbor's gall; for his audacity and his glaring lies, when, lurching just above the brink of senselessness, he had whispered, "You mean nothing to me." And Annatar had almost believed it.

It was a mercy when they broke his body, already gorged with arrows of contumely let loose by Annatar's own troops. The proud, reckless line of Fëanor—ended, shredded to a piece of meat to droop from a spear, a macabre banner of war.

Annatar himself charged forth into battle that evening. And though no songs are sung of him amid the ruin of that day, whispers still tremble upon lips of how fell and fey he had become; how he washed the crimson stains from his hands in the blood of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain; how he christened his victory in destruction and in the faceless fallen spiraling like a leaguer round him.


End file.
